


The Song of the Smith and the Stranger

by MarisaKateBella



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisaKateBella/pseuds/MarisaKateBella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a post found on tumblr. </p><p>A knight roams the seven kingdoms hosting a banner of a house ten years destroyed by the reign of King Jeoffrey and the War of the Five Kings. The songs that are sung speak of a lost princess and her true love's devotion, of death and sadness, anger and betrayal, love and loss. The thing that sets this story apart from others is that it's true, a man with a bull's helm and a banner of a direwolf gallops across the seven kingdoms in search of something, though none know what. All that is known is that he's been searching for nigh on ten years and his blue eyes are the saddest in all of Westeros.</p><p>http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m5jue3S7LW1qe1i57o1_r2_500.gif</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Lone Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Get ready for a ride, this is going to be a long one. It will be painful, I'm warning you of that now, but please don't let it dissuade you. Hopefully, you enjoy despite the pain.

“Another!” pleaded the young boy, “just one more and I promise to go to sleep.”

The mother sat back down on the edge of her son’s bed with the sigh of a woman over worked. “Alright, just one and then it’s off to sleep with you,” the mother relented, smiling in the candlelight as her boy snuggled under his covers, pulling them up to his chin. “Which would you like?”

“What about the Lone Knight?” the boy suggested eagerly, eyes shining.

“You’ve heard that one a dozen times, what about a different one?”

The boy shook his head stubbornly, “the Lone Knight is my favorite one.”

“And why’s that sweetling?” the mother asked tiredly, tucking the sheets around the squirming child.

“Because it’s true!”

“And the other’s are not?” the mother questioned with a smile.

The boy frowned, “well, they might be. But the Lone Knight is real! You’ve seen him, haven’t you, Mother?”

“Aye, I’ve seen him.” The mother’s voice was dreamy as she thought back. “He sat tall and proud in his worn saddle a top his red steeler, carrying that heavy banner and wearing his bull helm. Just like in the songs.”

“Where did he come from mother?”

“No one knows, my boy. Some say that he came from across the seas, others say from the north, while others argue he isn’t a person at all, but the ghost of a man, lost and wandering.”

“What is he looking for?”

“Some say honor, but I don’t believe that.” The mother smiled kindly down at her son whose eyes were as big as saucers as he listened. “I believe he’s waiting for a lost princess.”

“Who is she and why does he care?”

“Some people say that he was sworn to protect the lost princess and when she disappeared he continued his search for her, but that isn’t the case. I know, because when he rode by me on that hilltop, all gallant and so fierce I nearly dropped my load, his blue eyes looked at me with a desperate question in the depths of them. ‘Are you her?’ they seemed to ask me. Those were not the eyes of a man sworn to duty, but the eyes of a man who has lost his love. Maybe his love is a princess, and maybe she left him because he was only just a knight but I like to believe that she was taken away from him. Stolen to be ransomed to the King in the North while he lived.”

“Do you think they’ll ever find each other?” The boy asked, he had turned his head and was gazing out the window of his bedroom, looking out upon the rolling hills of the farmlands, perhaps imagining the knight wandering the hills. The mother leaned forward and kissed her child upon the temple.

“I don’t know, my love. War is cruel and it oft as not takes away the one we love.”

“Like father?”

“Like father,” the mother repeated, her voice quiet and thoughtful.

“I think he’ll find her.” The boy said looking at his mother.

“And why is that my summer child?” the mother said fondly.

“Because he loves her and love is the strongest force in the world, not even the gods can touch it.”

“Aye, maybe. You must sleep now, my summer child, or soon the day will break upon us and you’ll have not gotten any sleep at all.” She stood up and blew out the candle by his bedside table.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” the boy asked his voice small in the darkness of the room. The mother paused by the door.

“Who, my child?”

“The princess.”

“Aye, I know she is.”

“How can you know?”

“Because my summer child, if she were dead, he would have stopped searching long ago.”


	2. The Faceless Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl should not remember, yet she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: So, here is the first chapter! Just a bit of a warning, obviously this is an AU and takes place ten years after Arya fled from Westeros. Please keep in mind that I haven't read passed CoK and don't know exactly what happens to Arya and Gendry and everyone but I have a pretty good idea and I did as much research as I could without spoiling everything for myself. Forgive any errors to canon I have made, I apologize in advance and plead AU, just go with it everyone! Hopefully the writing will distract you from any errors.

A girl is not supposed to dream. She is not supposed to run through winter capped mountains with a direwolf at her heels. A girl is not supposed to remember, to miss, to long for. These are the things that cause the sword to fail, when someone turns to you and they have the eyes of love long lost and you hesitate. This is why a girl should not dream.  
  
Yet, she does.  
  
When all else is quiet in the home she’s made for herself across the Narrow Sea, Cat of the Canals dreams. First it is only images of a place long ago lost to her memory, a place she has not seen since childhood; it is cold and dark and the pictures in her mind make her stomach hollow from an unplaced sadness. There are flashes of a castle burning, dark smoke filling the crisp blue sky. It is after the smoke is blown away by a gentle breath of the wind that Cat of the Canals’ dreams become something more than images of a fortress far from her reach in a land where the echoes of war still rage.  
  
If she dreams long enough, though she seldom does, she begins to see things: kind brown eyes set in a leathery face; brooding eyes underneath a furl of curly, black hair; gentle voice of someone holding her close in darkness; fingers that tug playfully on her hair; the sound of swords echoing tauntingly in her ear; and finally (for they always came last in these dreams of hers) deep blue eyes, deeper than the sea she crossed to escape them. Cat of the Canals always wakes more tired then rested from these dreams, names of people long lost to someone far away, ghosting on her lips.  
  
When restless of her past Cat of the Canals journeys to the Ragman Harbor, perching delicately atop a high wall, and watches the ships come into shore. People call to her from her post above them all, greetings to a homeless girl whom they’ve seen before. _If only they knew who I really was, these calls would not be half as kind_ , Cat of the Canals thinks from her post, staring listlessly above the heads of all those who are gathered below.  
  
The sound of voices bartering and laughing lightens Cat of the Canals mood considerably, until she finds herself smiling along to a joke being told down below her. As quiet as a shadow she hops from her post to make her way through the bustling crowd. As she prowls her keen ears pick up snatches of conversation, she tells herself that she does it so that she can learn about these people, always studying for the next assignment. She refuses to acknowledge the tugging at her heart whenever she catches the name of someone from her past.  
  
Talk of Westeros is never lacking in the Free Cities and Braavos is the ringleader of gossip, its merchant princes and sealords never wasting a chance to whisper about the War of the Five Kings, the Lannisters remaining with a shaky hold. It is never too early in the morning to hear talk of rebellion but never do these stories ring with importance to Cat of the Canals, the girl who left everything behind.  
  
She has heard the tales of Rickon, a name that rings in her head like a bell, soft and resonating; the name of a child with a mop of auburn hair a top his dirtied head. She knows somewhere in her bones that little Rickon is alive and little no more. Ten years have past since she’s seen the boy who was once her brother, a man grown now he would be; fiercer than any creature that prowls the world and hungry for blood as he once was. His battles are his own to fight. She had resolved never to return when she left, willing to stick to the promises of a future alone and free, for she was wild too. Unbridled and reluctant, Cat of the Canals refused to leave when it was said that Rickon’s army was forming in secret, ready to move against the Iron Throne. She told herself it was because she did not want to die, unwilling to face the truth of war.  
  
Let her brother become king, like her brother before him, and the dead king’s brothers before either. It was a never ending trail of blood that dripped from the swords of many and the hearts of all. Let her brother march against his enemies and fall upon their spears, the songs would sing of his fury but never of the pain it caused. His bravery and gallantry will be spoken of long after the great grass of the Dorthraki covers every corner of the world, but never will there be an ode to the quiet grief that commanded his actions, the revenge of family.  
  
Cat of the Canals stalked the shores of the Ragman Harbor, chatting with merchants and stealing sweets for the beggar children that seemed to follow her like a billowing cape. She hissed at them to leave her after a while, and they ran; sweets melting on their tongue as they did, for as honeyed as the treats may taste all the children know to fear the young woman with a needle for a sword.  
  
Cat of the Canals had been shocked when she realized she was no longer a girl, changing your face made it hard to recognize the changes of your own body but still they came: hips flared and fat filled in her middle though lean muscle still corded through her abs, breasts rose from her chest, and she grew. Still small enough to fit into tiny creep-holes and down alleyways but she was a woman grown now, going on three and twenty.  
  
She was jostled from her thoughts by two men who elbowed pass her, carrying a box between them. Along the top of the box was the stamp: WESTEROS and curiosity peeking, Cat of the Canals idly followed the men lumbering down the crowded port, following easily in the wake they made among the people. They stopped before a large ship docked at the far end of the harbor. They walked up a narrow plank and boarded the ship, disappearing from view. She stood by the ship and looked around, this part of the harbor was much less busy and she soon began to feel uncomfortable and wondered why in seven hells had she thought it was a good idea to follow these strange men.  
  
“Oiy! Kitty cat!” a voice called and a man came striding into view. He was tall, his lanky body strung with the muscles of a sailor. His hat hid his dank black hair but not well for it stuck out unruly from beneath its edges; he was finely dressed in a brilliantly blue silk shirt that rippled like water as he approached, his legs encased in leather breeches. Cat of the Canals backed up a step and her heel knocked against a large weight on the shore which had a great rope wrapped around it, keeping the ship to port.  
  
“Hello Tap,” she said warily, hopping up to sit on the weight, giving her a height advantage that made her feel infinitely more relaxed. The wiry man leaned against the side of the sandstone weight and tipped his hat to her. He was a cocky fellow and a horrible card player, when Cat of the Canals was bored she would often entertain herself by gambling with the ship crews, she normally came away with pockets bulging and most of the regulars to port were wary of her prestige.  
  
“What’s Kitty cat doing all the way down here by the lowly _Homebound_?” he looked up at her with a twisted smile, his eyes glinted with mischief but Cat of the Canals had decided long ago she liked him well enough.  
  
“ _Homebound_ is no lowly ship,” she commented, noting the ships looming shadow. “And aptly named besides,” she closed her lips tight and bounced her heels off her perch, wondering why she had said anything at all.  
  
“Aye? Westeros is home to many in Braavos but I never thought that of you.” He looked her up and down.  
  
 _No, he wouldn’t would he_? She thought to herself, _my skin is as tan as any Braavosi, my accent thick from years of practice and my face is made to blend_. “It’s not my home,” she bit her lip. _It is the home of a girl I once knew_.  
  
He squinted at her and some how she felt as if he could see right through her face, after a moment he spoke. “Well, if you change your mind, _Homebound_ is homebound tomorrow eve.”  
  
“Anyone sane would not go back to Westeros,” she snapped peevishly.  
  
He chuckled, “Mayhaps not Westeros, but home always calls to the heart.”  
  
 _I have no home_ , she thought bitterly, yet her gut twisted with forbidden longing. When she stared icily into the distance without giving him a reply, he spoke again.  
  
“Care to join us for a game of cards?” He asked, pulling a deck from his pocket and shuffling it as if to entice her to stay. Her eyes flicked from his face to the cards and back again. She sighed through her nose and he smirked.  
  
“I’ll beat you this time,” he promised as he led the way onto the deck of the ship.  
  
“Maybe if the gods are feeling generous,” Cat of the Canals drawled, jumping from her perch to follow.  
  
“And which gods are those?” he asked.  
  
“The old,” she responded before thinking, curling her lips inwards to bite down on them, hard; her own penance for letting slip that private bit of information.  
  
Tap looked back over his shoulder at her with a twinkle in his eye and a wink, “the Old gods then? From the North I reckon.”  
  
“I am not from Westeros,” she snapped. “Let’s start that card game.”  
  
“As you wish,” he quipped pleasantly, sitting down atop a barrel turned on its side. As the crew realized that a game was starting and who their guest was, people gathered around. Someone called for wine and a small boy went below decks, returning sometime later heaving a large barrel he pulled by a rope. A man with one eye set it on the side of the ship and pulled the cork while people filled their drinks laughing and talking merrily. Many of the men called cheerfully to the Cat of the Canals, bidding her come drink with them though all knew that she never touched a drop of the bitter wine before betting.  
  
“I reckon that’s why she’s so damn hard to beat,” the man with one eye, whom she knew was named Hiego, rumbled taking a long pull from his skin.  
  
She smirked at him, “well, should I let you all get drunk enough to drown or should we get started?”  
  
Hiego and many others laughed uproariously but Cat of the Canals had only eyes for Tap, who was shuffling his cards and watching her with those twinkling eyes, like diamonds, that felt as if they were looking right into her soul.  
  
“I’ll deal,” he said elegantly and placed a card in front of her never taking his eyes from her face.

  



	3. The Broken Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a girl was not allowed to remember, the knight never forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to the second chapter! I hope everyone is satisfied so far, and intrigued! Please let me know what you think! I write for the people who read these stories and it's always rewarding to hear criticism!

If a girl was not allowed to remember, the knight never forgot. Never forgot those grey eyes, harsh as newly forged steel and gentle as molten metal. Never stopped picturing the long face and small nose. Never let himself forget her walking away from him in a flurry of anger, to be seen naught again by him. Of course when she had not returned by sunrise he had went after her, worry twisting in his gut and his cries becoming more desperate by the minute. The Brotherhood men laughed behind his back, he knew. Laughed at his fear and concern.

The little wolf wouldn’t just leave without her pack, they japed, she’ll turn up soon enough.

Her pack.

He had thought himself a part of her pack, little to be sure, but a good one none the less. He had heard her muttering one time that the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. A chill had run down his spine when he recalled those words. She was a lone wolf now, gone into the wild. Gendry often thought he should let her go, to stop searching. But he never had.

He broke his oath to the Brotherhood a year after she disappeared. He didn’t know why; he had a good position and a warm meal every night but something felt wrong. He was trapped with the Brotherhood, trapped and prone to fits of rage. A bull chained to a spike and told to stay put. He had become sullen and quiet, only speaking to lash out. He hated himself. Hated himself for letting her leave so angry, hating himself for not going after her sooner, hated himself for believing that she would be alright on her own.

He did not know what happened to her. Rumors sprung up sporadically around the kingdom. She was at Harrenhal, she was at Winterfell, she was on the Wall, she was captive at the Twin Towers, or she was far across the sea. He liked to think the latter: she was in Braavos; he pictured her with the salt wind in her hair. He hoped that she was in Winterfell, but knew it naught to be true. He had traveled there himself in his nine years of wandering.

It had been bleak and depressing; the North in all it’s iciness had been aflame. Winterfell was burning; it seemed to never stop. Bloodshed rules in Winterfell and he knew before he entered the town below its walls that she was not there. It would have broken her heart to see it so destroyed and he prayed to the gods that she was far across the sea.

He had been riding for years. It amused him to know that he had become naught more than a ghost to most people, even more amusing was the fact that there were songs sung and stories written about his devotion to his forgotten princess. The Lone Knight and the Forgotten Princess: a tale of love and loss. It was funny because Arya would have hated being called a princess, she would have loathed to be sung about as well.

The sun was setting as he crested the hilltop that made up the horizon of the village that lay in the hill’s shadow. He reined in his mare gently and rested his hands on his pommel. The banner that was attached to his saddle cracked in the wind, but for its rippling all was silent. His red mare shimmered golden in the orange glow of dusk, she nickered and Gendry buried his fingers in her mane. “It’s alright, Nymeria, old girl. We’ll be somewhere to rest soon.”

“Nymeria? Is that your horse’s name?” A voice asked curiously.

Gendry wheeled his mount around, who skittered sideways in fear. He reached for the pommel of his sword but when he saw who stood there he relaxed. The small boy was staring at him with wide eyes, holding a pail of water that he must have been sent out to collect before the world was wrapped in darkness. Gendry nodded but said nothing.  
  
“You’re the Lone Knight, aren’t you?” the boy’s voice shook with excitement.

Again Gendry did not speak but dipped his head in assent.

“I know because my mother tells me stories about you, she saw you one time. You were right here on this same hilltop, she said that you looked at her and your eyes were sad. Are you sad? Why are you sad? Is it because you’re looking for a princess? Did you love her? Do you still love her? Is she dead?” The boy bit his lip and rocked back and forwards on his heels, water sloshing down his front but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Aren’t you frightened of me boy?” Gendry’s voice was not harsh but raspy from disuse.

“No,” the boy said standing tall and puffing out his chest.

Gendry smiled at his courage. “What’s your name?”

“Noen, ser.”

“What are you doing alone at this time? It’s dark, you could get hurt. It’s dangerous.”

“No, ser. Began your pardons, but I know these hills like the back of mine hand.” Noen put down his water bucket.

“Where is you mother?”

“My mother owns the inn down that-a-way, in the village.” He nodded his head towards the torch light below. “She sent me out to fetch water for the horses.”

“The inn you say?” Gendry rubbed a calloused hand over his face, sighing deeply.

“Oh yes, ser. The finest inn ‘round these parts. We’ve got featherbeds in every room.” He quipped, obviously a long practiced speech.

“Do you think your kind mother would allow a featherbed for a dirty, tired man like me?”

The boy’s face lit up, it shone more brilliantly than the setting sun. “Of course, ser. And a warm meal too I reckon.”

“Lead the way then,” Gendry gestured. The boy scrambled to pick up his bucket and started walking down the hill. After a minute Gendry could hear Noen’s struggled breathing from the weight of the large pail he carried. “Noen,” he called quietly. The boy almost stumbled in his haste to stop walking and turned around to face Gendry, who reached down his hand from his mount and gestured for the bucket.

Noen clutched it to his chest, “I am fine, ser. It is no trouble; I carry this bucket three times a day. I have lots of chores around the inn; since father died I have to be man of the house now.”

“And what a responsibility, you wear it well. Let me lighten your load at least for tonight, I would be very humbled if I could help such a strong young man as yourself.” Gendry coaxed and the boy handed over the bucket unsurely. Gendry grabbed it and firmly lifted it from Noen’s grip, it was easily done and he held it in his strong hands. With a sly grin he looked down at the little boy. “Well, now. It seems I can’t hold my reins while trying to hold the bucket as well. What to do?”

“I could take the bucket back, ser. It’s no trouble really.” Noen worried his fingers together.

“Or, I could do this.” And Gendry reached down again, grabbing the boy by the back of the collar and hoisting him into the saddle in front of him. The boy was skin and bones, just as Gendry had thought, and light as a feather, he couldn’t have been younger than eight but he weighed no less then a newborn babe. Once plopped in the saddle, with Gendry holding the bucket to the side, the boy hesitantly grasped the reins. “Just tell her to move and she’ll go,” he said gently after a minute of the boy sitting stock still.

“Nymeria, onwards,” Noen said his voice trembling with exhilaration. Gendry nudged Nymeria in the side and she started forwards at a smooth walk. The banner of the direwolf snapped in the wind as they wound their way down the hill. Soon they stopped outside the two-storied inn. Noen climbed reluctantly from the saddle and Gendry handed him the pail.

“Now go run along to your mother, I’ll be there shortly. Tell her I’d like a room and meal for the night, I have to take Nymeria to the stables.” Gendry watched the scrawny boy’s retreating figure, light poured from the door as he swung it open. Gendry didn’t let his eyes travel from the boy until the inn door shut closed behind him. He went around to the back, flipped the stable boy a coin but tended to Nymeria alone, brushing her dark red coat with a coarse brush. When he finally made it back to the inn, no one paid him mind as he entered. He was not dressed in knight’s garb and there was no sigil upon his doublet, like most of the people in the boisterous inn. He was just another face in the crowd.

That is until he heard a familiar voice shouting: “That’s him! There he is. I told you I wasn’t lying mother.” Gendry weaved his way through the throng of people, keeping his head down until he reached the bar where a comely woman was trying to get Noen to untangle his fists from her skirt.

“I’m sorry; my lad has it in his head that you are the Lone Knight. He’s a bit fanciful. What can I do for you?”

“It is him, mother! Look at his eyes; they are as sad as you said!”

Gendry lifted his eyes beneath the mop of sweaty black hair that hung down his forehead. The woman put a hand to her chest and her eyes grew wide. “It is you,” she breathed.  
  
“Told you,” Noen mumbled, glaring up at his mother. Gendry winked at him.

“I haven’t seen you since I was a young girl.” Gendry looked at her, and though now she held no interest to him, with her deep red hair and muddy brown eyes, he knew why she would have looked so closely into his eyes. She was just the same age Arya would be, going on three-and-twenty any moon now. “Not that you would remember me of course, it was years past and you only rode by me,” she fluttered, obviously full of nervous energy. “Anything you want, on the house.”

“I couldn’t—“

“I won’t hear any of your chivalrous excuses. Go find a table and I’ll make sure you have hot food to fill your belly and a room to rest.” She shooed him away good-naturedly. He turned and found a table beneath a window in the far corner of the room. People watched him as he walked and he hung his head. When he sat he turned to face the room, watching the crowd, looking for a pair of grey eyes or a long and deadly needle strapped to the hip of a pale, short-haired young woman.

He became aware of a cumbersome weight in his lap and jumped slightly when he felt the curve of wet lips against his ear. He snapped his head around and came eye to eye with emeralds. “The Lone Knight,” the whore purred, and he couldn’t help but feel the way her breath landed on his face, sending shivers down his body. “I could make you not so lonely any more.”

“No thanks,” he muttered, looking away from her.

She turned him back with a thin finger on his cheek. “You sure?”

“If I wasn’t the Lone Knight, then I’d be nobody and what’s the fun in that?” he laughed humorlessly. The whore smiled, red lips parting to expose pearl white teeth. She turned so her lips were brushing the hollow of his ear.

“I could be your lost princess,” she whispered, her breath sending an involuntary shudder down his spine. He stiffened and she looped her arms around his neck, leaning back to look at him. “What do you say? I may not be royal, but you aren’t even a real knight. I bet the princess who you pine for has long forgotten those sad blue eyes, but I never will. So handsome,” she sighed, brushing a piece of hair from his forehead.

“You need to get off,” he said harshly and she frowned.

“Fine.” She sniffed. “I don’t want to fuck an oath breaker anyways.” She scoffed and climbed off his lap, he watched her retreat with an ache in his heart for his real lost princess. Though she was only a princess by name (and by that, barely); she was a wolf by heart. His wild wolf woman; and he meant to find her even if it meant his life.


	4. Whispers on the Canals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yet, the crashing waves that lapped at the boat’s bow called her in a steady chant. "Arya, Arya, Arya. Home, Home, Home."

It is dark and the night is full of laughter and shouts of merriment. One thing Cat of the Canals loved so much about Braavos was the fact that the city never seemed to sleep. During the day it was a bustling, active place with cheerful calls in the market by the docks but at night Braavos came alive. Torches lit up along the shoreline and the flickering flames danced upon the water. People haggled for much more than goods, trading secrets whispered from a whore’s bed.

The cards had been stacked in Cat of the Canals’ favor this night, and the coins on her end of the table rolled across the deck as they were pushed to the edge. Cat of the Canals let a few drop and roll, members of the crew chasing after the loose gold eagerly. Her face was set in an easy smirk, mirth twinkling deeply in her grey eyes, though they looked almost red in the firelight, reflecting the flames as they jumped in the wind.

“Had enough yet, Tap?” she taunted, leaning back in her chair and watching his face. The sharp features made shadows play over the hollow of his cheekbones giving him a dark appearance, but his blue eyes twinkled like sunlight on snow.

“Of course not, Kitty cat, I’m just warming up.”

The crew hooted at that and she felt one of them give her a slap on the back good-naturedly. She could feel Hiego peeking over her shoulder to get a look at her cards. As the tip of his beard tickled the nape of her neck, she laughed a bit and shoved him away. She felt in her heart some form of affection for the motley crew before her. They were all from Westeros, born and bred, and from all over the lands. Tap had told her once that he, himself, had been born under the shadow of the Red Keep, but she did not quite trust him.

“So,” she said casually. “What’s word in Westeros?”

“Aye, Cat, there are things happening in Westeros,” Hiego leaned down to say. “Such that’s been putting the Lannister’s in a right state, I’d say.”

“Oh?”

“They say that the two boys of Winterfell where never killed. What was they’re names?”

_Bran and Rickon._

“Bran, and I think the wee one was Randon or some such.” Someone supplied.

_Rickon is not much of a wee one anymore._

“Don’t matter, anyhow. What matters is they say they ain’t dead. That they roam the North and are planning on taking it back.”

“How?” she asked, fiddling with her cards. She could feel Tap’s mischievous eyes on her so she didn’t dare look up.

“Seven hells if I know. What the whisperers say is that the wee one doesn’t have just one direwolf; but three that obey his every will.”

_Then both of the boys can’t be alive, Summer would never leave Bran and Shaggy would never listen to anyone but Rickon. If what he says is true, Bran must have…died. As for the other direwolf, it can’t possibly be true. The only direwolves in all of Westeros belonged to us and there was only Shaggydog and Summer in Winterfell._

“Interesting,” she agreed, and played her hand, feigning disinterest. She scooped the gold towards her pile. A coin clinked to the wooden floorboards of the deck and rolled into the crowd. It stopped when it hit the shiny black boot of a man who had come on deck from below just moments before. He was tall and well muscled. His black hair was thick and unruly and came down to his shoulders, where it blended in to the impressive beard that covered the lower part of his face. His eyes were small and such a deep brown that they looked black in the night. The chatter died away as he stooped to pick up the coin. When he straightened he held the gold up to a torch, it winked in the light.

“Who is gambling our gold?” his voice was silky and deep, impressive and threatening.

Tap looked up, “It is I, Cap’n!”

The Captain strode forward, his black boots clicking with every step. His blood-red coat, adorned with golden thread, flowed out behind him; making him look as if he had giant wings. He stopped when he reached the guilty party. He stared down his nose at Tap, “my own First Mate, gambling away the riches of our trade. I should’ve known,” his voice was ominous, a promise of punishment.

“Ah, don’t look at me. It was Kitty cat here that put me up to it, though she got me good and drunk first.” The Captain’s gaze cut over to Cat of the Canals, who had her gold around her like a king with his treasures.

When his gaze finally settled on her she spoke: “Tobais,” she smiled in pleasant greeting.

“Captain,” he snapped peevishly.

“Oh, no. I am no Captain good ser,” she smirked as Captain Tobais’ crew roared with laughter all around him.

“Shut up, you lowly dogs or I’ll have you all flayed come the morn’!” He roared, though he kept his eyes fixed on Cat of the Canals.

The laughter died.

“If you flay your crew, who will sail your boat?” Cat of the Canals asked innocently, stretching her lithe body in casual relaxation. The Captain watched her unfold, taking in the smooth curves of her hips and breasts, she could feel his eyes on her and it made her flesh crawl.

“Maybe I’ll just make you my crew,” his voice liquid honey laced with poison.

Her eyes flashed dangerously, “I’d like to see you try.”

“Mighty bad luck, taking a woman aboard a ship.” Tap said casually and the tension between the other two snapped. They both looked at him, their gazes cool and calculating. Tap leaned back on his barrel and tipped his hat forward over his eyes. “Permission to resume the game, my Cap’n?”

Captain Tobais breathed harshly out his nose. “Fine,” he snapped and stalked back under the deck. The ship was quiet with apprehension, the crew all silent in fear of their captain’s wrath. The only sounds were the sea lapping against the ship’s bow and the noise from the market below on the pier. Suddenly, before conversation could start up again, Cat of the Canals heard a small harp begin to play. A singer’s voice drifted over the water towards them but Tap spoke up.

“Now, if we could get back to the game…”

Cat of the Canals’ eyes snapped to the trader in his flowing blue shirt, “so eager for me to beat you? If it’s such bad luck to bring a woman on board, it must be horrendous luck to loose a game of cards whilst said woman sits upon the deck of said ship.” The crew roared in approval.

“Aye, but you’re just a girl to me, my sweet Kitty cat.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “let’s keep playing.”

They dealt another hand, the harp playing a sorrowful tune in the background, as they japed and laughed. When the singer moved on to the next song someone shouted: “Oiy! My mother used to sing that song to me when I was a boy!”

“You’re still a boy!” answered Tap, not averting his eyes from the game to look at the one who had called but Cat of the Canals looked over curiously. Tap was right; the boy was no older than thirteen but looked every bit as strong as any one of the other men. He was not wearing a shirt, letting the chill ocean breeze caress his chest and back, thick muscles corded his stomach and arms. His full lips were pouting and his dark eyes were glaring at Tap. He turned away from them to shout over the rail of the ship.

“Oiy! Singer!” the sound of the harp stopped abruptly. “Come up here and play us that song!”

They could hear an echo of a shout back.

“No! I’ll not pay you!” the boy snapped angrily.

“Fenmar, tell the singer we'll give him a copper.” Tap said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Fenmar leaned back over the rail to relay the message. A moment later a singer, who looked half scared out of his wits, climbed up the ramp and stood, clutching his harp to his chest, on the deck. One of the lads hopped down from where he was perched on a barrel and offered the singer his makeshift chair. The singer walked over nervously and scrambled onto the lid. When he was situated he turned around. “What would you like to hear?” he asked in a small voice.

“The one you were just playing down on the pier. The one about the knight!”

“The Lone Knight and the Lost Princess?” the singer said doubtfully, “surely you would like to hear a more rousing song for your drinking?”

Fenmar pulled his dagger halfway from its scabbard on his hip, so its silver blade glinted in the light of the fire. The singer got the message and nodded his head rapidly and began to strum out a haunting and slow melody.

“Well, this is a mood killer,” Tap mumbled, stretching backwards with a loud yawn.

Cat of the Canals smirked at him out of the corner of her eye but her interest was engaged by this nervous singer and it had been so long since she’d heard a song in the Common Tongue from home. When his song started his voice was sweet and sad:

“ _On yonder hill the sun breaks light,  
and with the morning comes the knight;  
sitting proud and tall on his horse of fire.  
He seats himself on a burning pyre._

 _Far away across the narrow sea:  
a fierce and cold princess laments,  
the loss of home and love she flees,  
and bowing her head, the lady doth repent_ …”

Something began to twitch in Cat of the Canals’ soul, a deep emotion that she had buried long ago. She felt something clawing up her throat, forcing its way out of her mouth but she swallowed hard and the pain jumped up behind her eyes, pricking them irritatingly. She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear her mind. She was Cat of the Canals, this story meant nothing to her.

“ _For it was she who fled from him,  
upon the dreary waves.  
And while he wanders o’er kingdom dim,  
her memory of his devotion fades_ …”

 _His memory does not fade_ , she thought. _No, I do not know him; this song is nothing to me._ She was Cat of the Canals, part of the Faceless Men. She was not a Northern princess who escaped across the sea. That was Arya Stark, who had died the moment she stepped on shore. And yet, the crashing waves that lapped at the boat’s bow called her in a steady chant. _Arya, Arya, Arya. Home, Home, Home._

“ _He roams the lands with the banner of a wolf,  
that plays across the wool,  
and on his head a helm of silver,  
that’s shaped just like a bull_.”

When the singer finished Cat of the Canals leapt up suddenly. She stumbled across the deck, the men clearing path as she came barreling towards them. Before thinking she had the tip of her needle pressed against the singer’s neck. No one moved to stop her, all stared in apprehension. “Is it true?” she whispered, her voice deadly serious in the quiet. The petrified singer nodded furiously. “How long?” The singer’s eyebrows came down in confusion. “How long has he been riding?”

“Al-al-almost—“ the singer gulped, his Adam’s apple pressing into the knife as his saliva slide down his throat, he winced and she shook him furiously. “Almost nine years.” She tilted her elbow up and pushed the sword through the singer’s throat. He gurgled and sputtered, blood came spewing from his mouth and landed on her face. She sheathed her sword at her waist and let the body fall to the floor. Without looking at any of the crew she fled from the boat.

 _He’s been looking for me, waiting. The stupid bloody bull_! Her heart panged at the thought of him, with his blue, blue eyes and his mocking laugh. The blood beneath her skin seemed to sing as she stalked down the pier; parting the crowd of people as easily as a ship cuts through water. She must have looked like the Stranger come for them because they hastened to make way, tripping in their eagerness to be as far from her as possible. She could not go back. She had no life left there, no family, no friends. Nothing. She had sworn an oath to the Faceless Men and her honor made her hold it.

Honor. How honorable was she anyway? She had just killed a man in her fury and it wasn’t even the first time. Her father would be disappointed, but she had no father. She was Cat of the Canals. No. She was Nan; no, Arry.

No. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and she was going to home to avenge her family’s deaths.


	5. Whispers in the Kingdoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been ten years since Gendry had ever been called by his name, and it had been ten years since he’d ever allowed himself to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, these chapters take place in alternating times, so this one takes place later than the next chapter (it'll make sense once I post the next chapter), just excuse the slight time difference is all I'm asking. Just pretend that it's all chronological. Thank you! Hope you enjoy, sorry this chapter is so short the next one will make up for it, I promise!

The atmosphere in the inn was celebratory, a woman had just given birth to a healthy baby boy and the whole village had turned up to participate in the merriment. It made Gendry uncomfortable to be amidst the joyful people, he sat in the corner nursing his pint and munching on some roasted pig. A singer was entertaining from a top a bar stool and his voice carried over to Gendry, it was a happy, uplifting song that made Gendry’s stomach churn.

His cool blue eyes watched little Noen dancing with his mother, who was quite pretty and as she laughed Gendry couldn’t help but smile a little, though it was a sad smile, the smile of someone who had lost too much before his time.

He placed his cup on the table and leaned his chair back on two legs. He realized he could hear the people behind him talking, which he hadn’t been able to do before because of the cries and laughter from the crowd. The two men where talking in quiet whispers.

“I heard that he has three direwolves, the size of small horses that’d sooner tear your throat out as look at ya’.” The fatter one was saying. Gendry’s interest peaked at the mention of a direwolf.

“Aye, and I have three heads,” the fat one’s companion, who had a gold tooth responded doubtfully.

“Those Stark boys escaped into the mountains, everyone’s talkin’ about it. Even now they make for Winterfell to reclaim what is theirs.”

“Even if it’s true they have to get past Ramsay Bolton first. I heard he’s as nasty as they come, even worse then that damn Joffrey.”

“Don’t go talking about the King that way!”

“I’ll talk about that piss poor son of a brotherfucker however I’d like. I hope those damn Starks take back Winterfell; maybe they’ll have a go at the Iron Throne. Wouldn’t mind one of them sittin’ pretty upon that metal chair, tough as winter they are.”

“Aye, I’ll drink to that,” and Gold Tooth did, a big swig of his wine. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and drew a breath before saying: “what about that Arya Stark? Ain’t she tied up to the Bolton? Surely her brothers won’t try to end the marriage.”

Gendry’s chair fell out from under him and he crashed to the ground, splaying out at the feet of the two men. They stared down at him for a moment and the music stopped with an awkward twang of harp string. Gendry scrambled to his feet and grabbed the fat man by the collar of his shirt, pulling him to his feet. His face was flushed with anger and drink as he spat at Gendry: “what the bloody seven hells do you think you’re doing?”

“What did you say?” Gendry’s voice was calm and deadly.

“I said: WHAT THE SEVEN HELLS ARE YOU DOING?” The fat man bellowed, spit landing below Gendry’s eye but he didn’t flinch, instead he shook the man once so that his head snapped backwards painfully.

“What did you say about Lady Stark?”

“The bitch married to that bastard? She’s all cozied up with him in that castle of theirs, what’s it to you?”

The man was thrown against the wall so hard that all the breath was knocked out of him, Gendry let him go with a final shove and he fell like a sack of dirt at his feet. He punched the wall where the man’s head had been and roared with frustration. He turned around. His breath was coming in ragged bursts and he must’ve looked something fierce, for all eyes were on him, he noticed Noen’s mother clutching the young boy closely. He whirled around in a panic, “I—“ he started to explain but Gold Tooth, who sat cowering in the booth still, bulked at his words and he shut his mouth. “What do you know of Arya Stark?” he growled at Gold Tooth, who had knocked over his mug of wine as he scrambled as far away from Gendry as the booth would allow.

“I—I—I had heard something different from my fri—friend here.” He glanced quickly at the man on the floor.

Gendry’s shoulders stiffened. “And what was that?”

“Well, I always—I believed she had left for Braavos after her brother and mother were killed.”

“Braavos?” Some vague memory was ringing in the back of his mind at the word, had it been she had always meant to leave? Was she always going to abandon him for far off adventure? Who had he been to trick himself into thinking that maybe she’d stay and put away her needle and wild life, she was a wolf after all and wolves cannot be tamed. Braavos made sense. Gendry knew that she would never had married this Ramsay Bolton, she would have rather thrown herself from the highest tower of Winterfell, fallen to her death like her brother had almost done all those years ago.

“Aye, Braavos,” Gold Tooth had seemed to regain some of his courage for he had straightened up in his seat and was dabbing at the wet spot on his doublet from the spill of his wine. “But, I heard she’s set sail on a ship bound for Westeros.”

“And how would you know that?” The party had resumed behind him, once it was realized that nothing would escalate past what had already transpired. The atmosphere of the room was still tense but Gendry paid it no mind, his attention focused completely on Gold Tooth.

“Happens that I know a man, who knows a man, who is set to receive the ship at port,” Gold Tooth said with a smile.

“Where’s it docking?” Gendry snapped immediately.

“Seems my mind’s gone a bit fuzzy, can’t remember the exact details.”

Gendry growled angrily and fished a gold piece from his pocket, “clear up any fog?”

“Ah, yes, now I remember,” Gold Tooth replied, biting the coin between his teeth before slipping it in his pocket. “Seems to me they are comin’ in at White Harbor.”

“What is the name of the ship?”

Gold Tooth looked at him sideways, “you ask a lot of questions.”

Gendry slid two more coins across the table with a scowl.

“ _Homebound_.”

“Indeed.” Gendry turned on his heel and walked out the door. The bell chimed as he left, his boots made sloshing noises in the mud as he walked towards the stables, but besides his tread all was quiet. It didn’t take him long to get Nymeria saddled. As he led her out into the crisp night air she picked up her head and blew out hot air from her wide nostrils, her ears pricking forward. Gendry reached up and put a hand on her nose. “What is it girl?” He whispered. She snorted in response and lowered her head. Gendry turned and saw Noen standing with a hat upon his head and a bag tossed over one shoulder.

“Can I come with you?” he said in a way that was innocent and determined at the same time. He sniffed a bit and wiped his nose on his sleeve and shifted his bag higher up on his shoulder.

Gendry beckoned him closer. “I can’t take you with me.”

The boy’s face fell, “but I’m strong and smart! My mother’s teaching me to read letters and soon I’ll be old enough to have my own sword.”

“Aye?” Gendry asked with a smile.

“Oh yes, it will be big and sharp, and the hilt will have a wolf on it.”

“A wolf?”

“My sigil!” The boy said proudly.

“The direwolf is the sigil of House Stark.”

“I know that, but a wolf is different.” Noen kicked at the ground, his toe digging in to the soft mud.

“You are smart.” Gendry acknowledged. Noen beamed, his brown eyes shining with pride. “But I can’t take you with me.” The boy frowned. “What would your mother do without you? You’re the man of your house, with your wolf sigil. You can’t leave your poor mother undefended.”

Noen’s face fell in shame and he dropped his gaze to stare at Gendry’s boots.

“When you’re old enough and have sons of your own, then I promise you will have all the adventures in the world.”

“How can you promise me that?” The young boy’s voice was bitter.

“Because I know a princess and she will be the most powerful woman in the North, and when she is I will tell her of the brave young man who sheltered me and gave me the courage to go out and find her.”

“Are you talking about Gold Tooth?”

“No! I’m talking about you. I’ll tell her the tale of how you found me on that hilltop and how you guided me safely into town, you could have led me into a trap but you didn’t. You introduced me to your mother who gave me a place to sleep and food to fill my hungry belly. When she hears your valiant deeds she will call you a lord and all your sons after you lords as well.”

“Really?” Noen looked up at him.

“Lord Noen, Protector of the Lone Knight. How does that sound?”

The little boy nodded eagerly, his eyes shining. “What if something happens to me?”

“Nothing will happen to you, and if you’re ever in trouble just send a raven to Winterfell, your mother is teaching you letters?”

The boy nodded. Gendry ruffled his hair, “good lad.” He gathered Nymeria’s reins and mounted up. “Just remember,” he said looking down at the boy: “Send a raven to Winterfell, ask for Gendry and I promise we will always aid you.”

“Gendry?” questioned the boy.

“Aye, that’s my name, but best we keep it between us, you know; unless you ever need me. Good bye, Lord Noen.”

He nudged Nymeria forwards and walked passed the boy. He went a few steps before Noen cried out: “Ser Gendry!” He ran up to Nymeria, who skittered sideways as he approached. Gendry steadied her with a pat on the shoulder. Noen shoved his bag towards him. “Take it please. It has food: cheese and bread. It will keep your belly full and warm.”

Gendry reached down and gently took the food from Noen, tying it to his saddle. “Thank you. You will have songs sung of your kindness one day, Noen, I promise.”

“Good bye, Ser Gendry.”

As Gendry kicked Nymeria into a slow canter he thought about Noen, receding behind him. He hoped that he could keep his promise to the boy; he hoped that Gold Tooth had not lied to him and that rumor was true. It had been ten years since Gendry had ever been called by his name, and it had been ten years since he’d ever allowed himself to hope. It was a long way to White Harbor, but he had the speed of his mare and the will of a man with nothing to loose.


	6. Onwards Homebound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And for the first time in her entire life, she felt like she was coming home.

Arya shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and stared up at _Homebound_ apprehensively. Dawn was just crawling over the horizon and the ship was a flurry of activity as the crew prepared for their voyage across the narrow sea. Arya wondered how great of an idea this actually was, but if she had to trust anyone she’d ever met in the past ten years it was Tap, she didn’t know what it was but his mischievous personality relaxed her, even if those brilliant blue eyes made her flesh crawl.   
  
She took a deep breath to steel herself and then climbed up the plank and onto the ship. People were running back and forth across the deck, shouts were being echoed from a top the masts where shipmates were unfurling the dark green sails. “Oiy! Kitty cat!”

She turned towards the voice with a jump, she had forgotten that she had left her face the way it’d been for the past ten years, she may trust Tap to see her safely to Westeros but she didn’t trust anyone aboard this ship with her true identity. Tap had offered Cat of the Canals passage on Homebound; he hadn’t offered Arya of Winterfell passage anywhere, on any ship. Tap swung down from the mast and slung and arm around her shoulders. “You know, originally it had been against my gut to offer you a place on this ship, but between you and me I think it’d be better luck to bring you with us than leave you here.” He gently began guiding her towards the barracks.

“Why’s that?”

“Why, because of who you are, of course,” he answered with an easy grin, looking sideways at her with those icy eyes staring as if they could see straight through her. Her heart beat picked up irrationally and she had to fight the urge to look down at her feet, a blush climbed hot and unruly up her cheeks.

“And who am I?” she asked after clearing her throat with a small cough, she furrowed her brow at him, feigning confusion.

“Cat of the Canals, the most slippery orphan in all of Braavos.” Tap laughed as they ducked below the deck and Arya was thankful for the sudden dim light, it allowed for the relief in her to consume her facial expression. Tap led Arya down a long corridor in silence, she allowed him to go before her, quietly wondering where she would be sleeping. She felt the ship lurch beneath her feet and she stumbled sideways into one of the walls with a loud thump. Tap turned around and chuckled at her while she rubbed her arm and kicked at the wall in irritation. At the end of the corridor was a door, which Tap opened and grabbed a torch that was burning in a hook. They descended the steps and Arya’s arms broke out in gooseflesh when the cool, damp air hit her.

“Are you taking me to the dungeons?” she laughed, though her voice did little to hide her apprehension. She was kicking herself for ever trusting this trader in the first place.

Tap chuckled a long with her, “would that it was, Cat. No, I’m taking you to the crew’s barracks; I hope you don’t mind sleeping amongst the men.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she mumbled under her breath. Tap turned and gave her a questioning look that she ignored, favoring to mentally berate herself for letting her tongue slip.

“You’ll be bunking with Hiego, he’ll take care of you. Make sure none of these mangy dogs lays a hand on you.”

“I can take care of myself,” she reminded him, halfway unsheathing Needle, which hung from a leather scabbard at her hip, so that the Valyrian steel glinted in the torchlight.

“Oh trust me,” the trader said flippantly, “I know. It took three hours to cleanse the deck of that singer’s blood last night.”

“You poor souls,” she snapped, but her heart gave a regretful pang, she hadn’t really meant to kill that innocent man. When they came to the sleeping quarters, Tap showed her the bunk she would be sleeping on, it was damp and the sheet was scratchy wool, and she was almost sure she’d spotted some rat’s hair on the fluff-less pillow when she put her stuff on the bed.

“You can leave your little sewing pin as well, Cat,” Tap said, eyeing her hip.

“It’s called Needle, and thanks but I’d rather keep it with me.”

Tap gave her a once over, she was wearing brown breeches with knee high black boots in polished leather, around her waist was a belt that held Needle’s scabbard to her hip. Her shirt was woven gray cotton that was a size too big for her, but it fit comfortably and the color reminded her of home. Her long brown hair was braided down her back, the tip of it reaching to her belt. He gave a shrug and turned around; she followed him back outside and blinked as she stepped into the sun, which had now risen high in the skies. The ship had already left the port and was cruising under the gates of the harbor.

“What port are we coming into?” Arya asked as she looked over the side of the ship, watching the white water frothing along the side of the ship. Tap leaned with his back against the wood, resting his weight on his elbows and crossing his ankles.

“White Harbor.”

_This will be easier then I thought, it couldn’t be more convenient_. “Are you Northmen, then?”

“Aye, most of are. Not me, I was born under the shadow of the Red Keep in King’s Landing, down in the city below the great sandstone castle.”

“The shadow doesn’t reach to the city,” she snapped and turning towards Tap. His eyes twinkled and he touched her nose with his finger.

“And how would my little Kitty Cat know that?” his grin was lopsided and Arya had the urge cut it from his face. Instead she glared at him while his eyes glittered.

It was a strange feeling being back on a boat, the last time she had she was only eleven years old, a scared and orphaned girl, abandoned and running from her true self. Now she was coming back still an orphan but forgotten now, and older.

She had stayed on deck all day, until her cheeks were burned pink from the sun and Braavos lay far in the past. Watching the sun set over the water was calming and foreboding at once, the purples and oranges reflected on the water and made it seem as if the sky went on forever. It made her want to tell the crew to turn the ship around and take her back. But she was a wolf, a lone wolf yes, but a wolf still the same, she was done running. She was coming home to her brothers and sister. The only ones left to her, the last of her pack. And the stubborn boy who had kept her safe all those years ago, she supposed he was part of her pack too, and if he found her; well, she wasn’t sure what she’d do, but she thought that, just maybe, she’d be glad to see him.

When the sun had finally sunk under the water Arya climbed down from the rail of the ship and went below deck, planning on getting some sleep. It would still be four days before they reached White Harbor and she had to have a plan by then, hopefully getting a good night’s rest would allow her to think. She had been trying to work out a course of action all day but instead she had spent most of it joking with the crew and helping where she could. Her hands were raw from climbing about the mast, helping to tie off ropes or let loose the sails. All with Captian Tobais’ eyes boring malevolently into her back.

As she walked down the hall she saw light coming from an open door. Treading lightly she tried to sneak past, for she could see Tobais bent over his desk scribbling on a piece of paper. A floorboard creaked and he looked up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her. “Ah, if it isn’t our stowaway. Please, come in.” He beckoned her to step towards him and she did, hesitantly coming to a stop just inside the door. “Close the door, if you would.”

She eyed him wearily but all he did was smile pleasantly at her, the metal tongue clicked softly into place as the door shut. “I’m not a stowaway,” she said cautiously as he rose from his chair and stepped around his desk. Her eyes watched him walk across the floor, his coat glistening red like blood in the dim light of the candles.

“I know that,” he said, coming to a stop in front of her. His voice was quiet and soft, but it put Arya on high alert, every muscle in her body tensed and she balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to move away if need be. He towered over her, but his ornate clothing would be a disadvantage to him for it made his movement clumsy.

“I have the gold, I promised to give it to you when I’ve safely set foot in Westeros.” She stepped away from the door as he came closer, turning so that her back was facing the wide open floor before the desk. He followed her movements, until they were slowly circling around each other.

“You mean this?” he drew a cloth bag from beneath his coat and dumped the gold onto the floor, a piece rolled across the polished wood and fell to a stop at Arya’s foot. “My own gold, repaid? I’m no fool; I know that this is the money you won the other night, gambling on my ship, you little orphaned whore.” His pleasant mask dropped then and the scowl beneath made Arya’s stomach tie in knots, he angrily stepped towards her and Arya reached to draw her sword but he was quicker, grabbing her wrist and yanking it up into the air. When she reached up to try and pry his hand away he took her arm in his hand and pulled it up with the other, wrapping his fingers around her slim wrists so that he could hold them above her head with one hand.

With the other he grabbed her chin. She jerked her head back but he tightened his grip, causing her mouth to open as a gasp of pain escaped. He curled his fingers into her cheeks so that she couldn’t properly close her mouth. He leaned his head in so close that Arya could smell the wine on his breath. She took a step backwards but he moved with her, pressing her up against a wall. “Besides, it’s not gold I want anyway.”

Arya tried to snap her head away again but he was too strong and soon his mouth was on hers, crushing her face with his, he bit her lip hard and she felt blood burst from the soft pink flesh. She snarled angrily and moved her head to the side, but not before his tongue had darted out to claim the inside of her mouth for a moment, he tasted of onions and other foul things mixed with her own red life’s blood. She stepped sideways and let his own force off-balance him, causing him to let go of her and catch himself on the wall before he crashed into it. Her blade was drawn before he had turned around and by the time he had taken a step, Needle was there to meet him.

The point of the steel entered his ribcage, Arya could feel the tip sliding past bone until it found the soft insides beneath and she pushed into it with all her might. It slipped easily through the back of him and he sagged against her, his breath hot on her ear as he died. When his body shuddered she threw him off of her and he slid down her Needle with a slow, squelching sound until he lay on the floor, blood disguised beneath the coat of red. Arya wiped the blade off on the ridiculous jacket with a lip curled up in distaste and then she sheathed her sword.

She hopped up on the desk and crossed her legs, putting her chin in her hands and stared at the dead body sprawled on the floor. She sighed with displeasure and sucked on her lip, tasting the blood and remnants of onions there. _I just killed the Captian. What am I supposed to do now_? After a while she made her decision and with a deep breath stole out of the murdered Captain’s cabin and made her way to the top deck. She found the crew neglecting their duties, as usual, and gambling beneath the moon and stars. The crew parted the way for her, tugging good-naturedly on her braid, or shouting out a greeting. She ignored them all until she found Tap, who was in the center of the men, playing out a last hand against a bald man with only one hand. She leaned down close to Tap’s ear, she felt him stiffen but he made no other movement.

“Do you trust me?” she whispered against the curve of his ear. The nod was almost imperceptible. “How did you feel about your Captain?” She knew there was really no love lost between Tobais and Tap, but he was first mate and he had to have gotten that place some how. He shrugged his shoulders against her chest, where she had pressed in close to him. “Stand up then.”

He smiled, “Moid, I’ll have to call this a draw, my friend. It seems like the little Cat has something to say.” The bald man looked past Tap to Arya, who stepped from behind Tap as he stood up from the sideways barrel he’d been perched on. She gave Moid her most charming smile and he nodded his head in assent. The men around them grumbled about losing their entertainment but most seemed curious of what Arya had to say.

“Tap, if you could be so kind as to turn this barrel right side up so that I may see everyone?” He gave her a strange look but did as she bid. “Thank you,” she said as he stepped back and she climbed on to the barrel. When she straightened she looked out over the tops of the men’s heads and down into their eyes, flickering with curiosity. “Your captain is dead.” A murmur went up amongst the men but no one made a move to do anything, as she looked from face to face she realized none of them were even remotely surprised. She began to explain: “see this blood upon my lip? Your captain attacked me, if I had not done what I did, he would’ve killed me, I only did what I had—“

“Miss, save your breath,” called the young Fenmar, “none of us held great love for our Cap’n! He was a Lannisterman who won the ship and us in a duel. We are Northmen; we have no love for lions. Ours is the blood of the wolf.”

“Aye! The blood of the wolf!” The cry rang across the ship.

_It is now or never_ , she thought to herself. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, when she opened them again it was to the shocked faces of the ones before her. Gone was the button nose, heart shape face, and big green eyes of Cat of the Canals; in its place was the long, slender face with the small grey eyes of Arya.

“She’s a Faceless Man! Come to kill us all!” Someone cried from the back.

“Don’t be stupid,” Tap said easily, he was the only one who seemed not to be surprised by her change of identity. “If she was here to kill you she wouldn’t have revealed herself. Besides, what makes you so special?” Some of the men laughed apprehensively.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell; I am the blood of the wolf. My brothers Bran and Rickon need my help, and my sister Sansa too! And I am coming home to them if I have to crew this bloody ship myself.” Her voice was steel and it rang throughout the ship like hot metal hit with a hammer.

“You won’t need to sail alone, milady. We will serve you.” Tap said, his voice carrying almost impressively as hers. The men took no hesitation but nodded their heads in agreement.

“The blood of the wolf!” cried Fenmar from the front of the crowd. The rest of the ship took up the cry, “the blood of the wolf, the blood of the wolf!” The pledge drifted over the black water and seemed to go on for miles into the night.

Days later when land was in sight, the small town of White Harbor stood out against the grey morning. Arya stood at the bow of the ship, the wind whipping through her loose hair, tangling it about her face. “Captain Stark!” Tap called, climbing up the stairs towards her on the high deck. He came to stand next to her, leaning casually against the rail. “You know, most these men are in a mind to come with you to Winterfell.”

“I’ll see that they do,” Arya turned to him. He had become her faithful companion after these long and restless days at sea. “And what about you, my friend? Will you come with us?”

He nodded, and the tightness around Arya’s heart that she didn’t know was there eased some. “Aye, I am half a mind to see the proper blood sit the throne again.”

“There is no throne in the North,” Arya told him. “There was one of old, but it’s gone now. Made of weirwood and great and white and fierce, my ancestors sat upon it with direwolves at their feet until they bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror.”

“I know the stories, milady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped and her heart tugged at something familiar, a foggy memory just out of her reach.

“Apologies, Cap’n.” He smiled at her, tipping his hat and sauntering off. “Land ho! Let’s bring her ‘round boys, we have a princess to take home!” Cries of assent came from deck below. She walked over the railing of her ship and looked down on her crew. These were good men and they were going to take her home. Her heart swelled for them as it had not done in nearly ten years, since a black-haired boy had knelt to arise a knight and she had been lost to her fate, alone.

And for the first time in her entire life, she felt like she was coming home.


	7. The Starks In Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things would always be missing from her: a spot for Robb, for her Father, even for her Mother who had loved Sansa more, a spot for all those people at Winterfell who had died when Theon sacked the town, for all those who had died protecting her father at King’s Landing, and even a small one for Theon who taught her how to shoot a bow and arrow, whose story she’d been told…and a spot for her smith, who had protected her, had kept her secrets, had guided her, and had stayed by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took so long to get up for everyone, I've just started college and had to get settled, but now that I'm on a bit of a regular schedule I should be able to get this finished for all of you lovely people who have been following it. Again, I apologize for the lateness, hopefully the next chapter is worth it! I promise the next one will be. ;]

White Harbor was loud and crowded, the men wore scowls and the women looked twice as vicious. When Gendry rode in upon Nymeria, he realized almost immediately he would not be able to maneuver the crowded road, so he stabled her at an inn and wandered towards the docks on the far side of town. Gendry despaired, wondering if his princess was here, how he would ever be able to find her as he shouldered past the bustling people that seemed to move as a wave like the ones that crashed upon the shore. The tall ships rose above the rooftops, looming in the sky; Gendry angled his way towards them, deciding it would probably be smartest to start there.  
  
His purse of coins jingled quietly inside his coat pocket when he finally stopped and gazed up at the ships that rolled slowly up and down with the tide. The wind was whipping cold at his face and he pulled his jacket collar up over his nose to keep the chill from it. The sky was grey and stormy, but Gendry took that as a good sign, as if the Gods were reminding him of the color of her eyes, and his apprehension of being able to find her eased some.  
  
He ambled down the rows of ships reading the faintly painted names on the side. He had passed ten ships already before his heart jumped into his throat and he rubbed a hand over his face, the fire of hope in his chest beginning to fade. It was another five before he stopped in front of the small ship that had the word _Homebound_ scrawled across its prow. Someone was walking off the deck of the ship, shaking his head as he went. Gendry jogged over and stopped at the end of the plank, waiting for the man to reach the dock. When he did Gendry caught his arm. “I was wondering if you could tell me where the crew of this ship is?”  
  
The man’s eyes widened at Gendry who pulled his purse from his pocket. He gave it a shake, raising his eyes suggestively. The man stuttered and cleared his throat. “I don’t know.” He raised his hands in defense. Gendry narrowed his eyes and then pulled his jacket lapel back to show the knife tucked into his belt underneath. “They paid me not to say!” the man cried out, and tried to run but Gendry caught him swiftly and pinned him to a post.  
  
“Don’t make a scene,” he growled, “I just want to know where they are.”  
  
“I don’t know, honest. They left at the North Gate ‘bout 10 days ago. The whole crew, just left, leaving the boat behind. I was inspecting it for goods, the shipmasters decided to keep it, since they ran off without instructions as what to do with it. They didn’t even pay for port,” he whined sourly.  
  
“Did they have a woman with them?”  
  
“No, I—I don’t…” Gendry pressed his harder against the pole: “Yes. Yes, they did!”  
  
Gendry dropped the man on the ground, who then scrambled up to his feet as Gendry turned his back.  
  
“Hey you!”  
  
Gendry turned around.  
  
“Don’t I get any compensation? Eh?” The man’s beady eyes grew greedily as Gendry made a disgusted face and threw his purse at the rat man’s feet. The man scooped it up and pocketed it. Gendry made his way through the crowds as quickly as possible. Ten days ago, he was only ten days behind. If he hurried he could make it to her…ten years, ten years since he’d seen her. He wondered if she would recognize him. Wondered if she even remembered who he was. Ice ran through his stomach that had nothing to do with the cold wind. He had never thought about their meeting, had never actually believed he’d ever see her again, but now, as he saddles Nymeria, his hands shake with anticipation.

***

The large oak doors are familiar underneath her hand, but her heart flutters in her throat. With a deep breath she chances a side glance at Tap, who nods his head, his face serious. His reassurance gives her the push she needs as she throws her shoulder into the doors and they swing open, banging against the walls. The hall is quiet for half a heart beat before the murmurs of the court begin. Arya looks up slowly. A man, with a scruff of red beard and a tossle of dark auburn hair, curled in a way that is so familiar, is standing, obviously having just risen suddenly from the great chair he’d been seated on. Stalking behind him is a great black direwolf, its teeth bared but stayed under the man’s hand. They two connect eyes, and Arya sees a small flicker of recognition.

“Arya!”

Her head turns automatically, it might’ve taken longer a few days ago, but ever since the men of the ship had been addressing her as “Princess Stark” and “Princess Arya” she had gotten used to her name again, it was almost as simple as slipping on an old coat. In her eyesight now is another man, older than the first with dark red hair, grown long to his shoulders. In one hand he grips the withers of his massive grey wolf and leans against him, with his other hand he keeps balance with a crutch made of white weirwood. Her eyes begin to itch.

“Bran,” she takes a stumbling step forward, reaching her hands out towards her little brother, her little brother who is standing a head taller than her, even though his legs don’t support any of his weight. She hears a ferocious growling and stops in place trying to blink away the fogginess of her eyes.

“Stay where you are,” the young man’s voice, little Rickon, who she used to curl up in haystacks with, his Tully blue eyes narrowed at her. “Who are you? ”

Tap stepped in front of her, “may I present the Lost Princess of Winterfell, Arya Stark.”

“Silence,” Rickon snapped, and Shaggydog clacked his teeth together in warning. Arya put a hand on Tap and drew him back behind her. She step forward, her heart rushing in her ears. She took a breath and drew herself to her full height and stared up at the man on the other end of the hall.

“I am Arya, your sister. You must believe me,” and if her voice sounded more like a plea than a command, well, she hadn’t been home in years.

Rickon’s brow furrowed and he turned to Bran, who gives him a small nod. Rickon turns further around, looking past Bran to someone lurking in the shadows on the dais, who she sees also nods. Rickon turns back to Arya. “Are you willing to stake your life on that fact?”

She nods; it is all she can do. She had not thought that they wouldn’t automatically believe her; she is hurt, her heart feels as if it’s a leaf breaking off from the branch and dropping down into her stomach. Rickon whistles and a giant of a man wobbles in, Arya can’t help but let a small smile curl up on her lips as she recognizes the stable-boy from her childhood. Her smile falters for a moment when she realizes what he is holding: a rope. And on the end of that rope: a grey wolf with red tinge around her face and back. Nymeria. The tears do come now. How beautiful her direwolf has grown, regal even as she tugs against Hodor’s grip on her makeshift leash. She is over waist high and furious. Arya’s heart jumps to her throat and she prays that her puppy from childhood remembers her.

Rickon nods at Hordor, who unhooks Nymeria’s leash. The wolf stops fighting and catches her breath momentarily, before sniffing curiously at her gigantic black brother. Rickon watches the two interact before turning to Arya. “Call her to you,” and his voice is distracted, almost as if he doesn’t want to watch, he rubs Shaggydog between the ears and Arya catches a glimpse of the petulant child she knew.

“Nymer—“ her voice trembles and she clears it. The whole court is hold it’s breath, somewhere water drips against the stone, creating a staccato of sound that bounces around the room. The direwolf is watching her now with those ember eyes that she dreamed of so many times whilst away. “Nymeria, to me.” The direwolf licks her lips. Arya begins to shake; she knows that her wolf would never come to anyone, but how to get her to anyway? Arya takes a breath and closes her eyes, reaching out with her mind like she had done on so many longing nights in Braavos. She can feel the sharpness of Nymeria’s consciousness. “Nymeria, come here, girl. To me.” The direwolf stalks slowly towards the group, she can sense Tap nervously shifting just behind her but all she can focus on is the muscles rippling under Nymeria’s coat as she walks towards her. Soon the wolf is standing in front of her, staring right into her, she can feel the wolf deciding, knows how easy it would be for the mammoth animal to kill her right there on the floor.

Nymeria rises up on her hind legs, and someone in the court shrieks, instead of ripping out her throat she places her massive paws on Arya’s shoulder and stretches her neck out to gently lick a salty tear of Arya’s cheek. Arya falls to her knees and buries her fists into the warm fur of Nymeria’s neck, Nymeria is whimpering softly and snuffling Arya’s long hair, pawing at her lap as the two try to get as close as possible. Arya is crying, great wracking sobs, muffled in her wolf’s chest. She can hear Rickon commanding that the court be cleared, hears Tap arguing, hears the bark of another wolf, and than before she can register: silence.

After a few moments she lifts her head from Nymeria and stands, keeping one hand on the head of her wolf, who sits at her feet, tail wagging with obscene happiness. There are three people standing around her and suddenly she feels very small. Bran’s blue eyes are shimmering with tears, as he holds Summer with one hand and his weirwood crutch with the other. He nods his head as she looks at him and Arya stumbles over, grabbing him up in a hug. Despite being taller than her, he is so light she is able to lift him off his feet, burying her head in his red-brown hair. She inhales the smell of weirwood and the faint odor of sweat underneath his furs but mostly she smells Bran, pure and simple, her childhood wrapped up in his strong shoulders. He curves his neck so that his chin rests on her shoulder and snakes his arm around her. The stubble from his chin scratches against her neck and she cries anew, remembering just how long it had been, since she left for King’s Landing whilst he slept. She had never known if he would awake, had prayed for him in that land so far away from the Old Gods’ watching eyes. She releases him finally and finds comfort in those blue eyes.

She turns to Rickon who is looking at her through lashes as his head hangs. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I had to be sure.” But she is gathering him up in a hug, kissing his chin the only place she can reach, and it’s her turn to be picked up off her feet. Rickon is strong, and he smells of fresh ice. Gone is the baby fat, replaced by lean muscle that she can feel as he holds her. She wraps her arms around him as she tries to reconcile herself with the fact that she missed him, missed everything about him. Missed his childhood, missed his wildness, missed his face, and smell, and love. When he drops her back onto the ground she realizes just how tall he is, as big as their Uncle Benjen, which reminds her:

“Jon?”

“Lord Commander of the Night's Watch,” Rickon smiles, and she realizes he still has that same face, so innocent and shy, and wild and fierce. And they laugh together for a moment, and Rickon squeezes her hand.

“I’ll send a raven at once to let him know you’re here.” Arya turns in surprise; she had forgotten there was a third person in the room, and a female. Her hair is a washed out brown, almost dead looking but besides the terror of her hair, Arya recognizes her sister’s high cheek bones and blue eyes, even with her dyed hair she is more beautiful than Arya had ever dreamed, and resembles their mother more so than any of them.

“Sansa,” Arya breathes.

“Little sister,” Sansa gives a small, sad smile and hugs her gingerly. Arya finds herself returning the hug, but barely.

“How?” Arya blurts.

“All in time,” Rickon cut in. “Dinner? Just the us.”

“I’m starving,” Arya smiles. It’s her first true smile in years and the muscles are almost painful. It feels strange to be reunited with her family but she couldn’t be happier.

***

They all sit around the table, spoons knocking against bowls of warm soup, the only sound. Finally Arya looks up. “Tell me what happened.”

Bran recites his story of going beyond the Wall and meeting the Last Greenseer and seeing Rickon coming back to Winterfell, when he decided to follow. Rickon told of his being spirited away to Skagos, and how he was brought back to the wall by Davos, meeting with Jon and telling him all that happened, and then continuing on to Winterfell to destroy the Boltons. It was hard going, and with Stannis dead, Davos was at a lost. He told of how Osha convinced Davos to fight for Rickon, and how he rallied the Manderlys and other loyalists to defeat the Boltons. Then they set about rebuiliding Winterfell. It had been five years since that had happened, and Rickon functioned as King in the North, having agreed upon the terms with the Queen in the North, Margarey Tyrell.

“And you?” Arya asked, turning towards her sister. The one she had never been closest too, but the one that had been with her the longest. She felt certain warmth for her sister, though there was hurt and coldness there too, but Sansa was a grown woman, nearly thirty, and the time for petty childness was well behind her.

“After Father was killed I was still betrothed to Joffery, until Margarey came along and I was cast aside. After Joffery was killed, Fa—Littlefinger,” Sansa swallows hard and tugs on her dress, “whisked me away to the Eryie, where I was disguised as his daughter for seven years. When our little cousin died, it was already too late for Littlefinger’s plan to be put into use. He cast me aside, so I ran away. Harry helped me escape.” She smiles, it is just for a moment, but she does.

“Harry?”

“Harrold Hardyng, my husband.”

“You’re married?” Arya choked.

“Of course, I am seven-and-twenty, what do you expect?” she smoothed her hands down over the fold of her dress.

“Yes, why didn’t I guess that before? Of course you’re married. Anyone else have any secrets they’d like to reveal while we’re at it?” she said with a roll of her eyes, Sansa actually did smile a little at that and Arya realized she was acting much like her younger self. It made her flesh sing. She then noticed both Rickon and Bran avoiding her eyes, and she realizes she can read them both like open books. “Well, get on with it.”

“Well, it’s not really a secret—“ Bran started.

“You haven’t really been here, have you?” Rickon added.

“What is it?” Arya asked, feeling impatient. The younger boys looked down guiltly.

“I’m married,” Bran muttered.

“Me too,” Rickon admitted.

Arya looked at her siblings in utter horror. “No.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding, they’re kidding right?” Arya pleads turning towards her sister, who does smile then teeth and all. It can’t be true, her little brothers who used to ride ponies through the woods with her, and swordfight in secret with her, _married_?

“To who?” she asked, feeling all the sudden very far away, as if the table at stretched out and she was alone on her side of the room, instead of her reality: bumping elbows with Bran as they tried to eat, side by side squashed into the small table off of Arya’s chambers, the very same ones she had had as a child.

“Meera Reed,” Bran said, swallowing heavily.

“Reed? Are you—are you a lord?”

“No, Jojen’s the lord, but my son will be heir, Jojen’s not married...”

Arya shook her head and swallowed her soup thoughtfully. “You have a son?” she mumbled.

“Not yet,” he said with a wink and poked her with his spoon. She smiled.

“And you?” Arya looked accusingly at her youngest brother, who blushed underneath his wild hair.

“Shireen Baratheon.”

“A Baratheon? Are you serious?”

“Watch it,” his growl was low and guarded.

She raised her hands in defeat. She looked across the table at Sansa, who sat with her back straight, slurping quietly on her soup, but when they made eye contact she smirked, Arya scowled back. “A Baratheon, how about that. Stannis’ daughter, yes?”

“Yes,” Rickon snapped, looking up at her, his eyes cautious, as if waiting for her to insult Shireen again.

“Queen Shireen, I guess that has a nice ring to it,” she mused sulkily and Rickon preened under the only praise he was probably going to get from his sister about his wife.

“We have a son too, you know.”

Arya choked on the sip of soup she had been taking and coughed, very unladylike, until Bran pounded her in the back. “You just had to mention that while I was taking a sip, didn’t you?”

Rickon gave her a wolfish grin, accompanied with a flash of white teeth, making him look very wolfish indeed.

“How old?”

“He’ll be four his next name day,” Rickon said, his chest puffing out in pride.

“Name?”

“Robb.”

Arya frowned down into her bowl of soup, looking at her reflection. She was so different than the last time she had walked these halls. How many times had she sat at this table with Septa Mordane and her mother while she was preparing for feasts or being punished for one thing or another? She thanked the gods silently that the fires of Winterfell had burned all her belongings, Arya had never been one for material possessions, but seeing the dolls her mother had given her or the books her father had, or the dresses in the wardrobe, or the blankets she had slept in as a child, was not exactly something she could handle at the moment.

Although a fire was blazing in the hearth, there was no warmth in the air, wind whistled through the castle, echoing around all of them as the Stark children ate in silence, feeling the ache of loss as real as the chill of the wind. Robb, Father, Mother, all of them gone. But as she looked at her little brothers, or even her sister, she realized that not all was lost. Had she not at one point thought them all dead? Jon lost beyond the wall, Bran and Rickon flayed and burned, only ten and eight years old, Sansa killed by Lannisters or lost to some other horrible fate? But they were here, all three of them, and Jon safely on the Wall.

Some things would always be missing from her: a spot for Robb, for her Father, even for her Mother who had loved Sansa more, a spot for all those people at Winterfell who had died when Theon sacked the town, for all those who had died protecting her father at King’s Landing, and even a small one for Theon who taught her how to shoot a bow and arrow, whose story she’d been told…and a spot for her smith, who had protected her, had kept her secrets, had guided her, and had stayed by her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fudged around with the ages a bit, so in case you all are wondering, I aged everyone up.  
> Robb: would be 30 (making him 20 when he died)  
> Jon: 30 (he would've been 20 when Arya left and he became Lord Commander)  
> Sansa: 27 (would've been 17 when Arya left)  
> Arya: 23 (would've been 13 when she'd left)  
> Bran: 22 (would've been 11 the last time Arya saw him)  
> Rickon: 20 (would've been 9 when Arya last saw him and 15 when he married and became king)


	8. Ghosts from the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brother, arrest this man for crimes against the crown.” She had never used a commanding voice, but it rang throughout the halls, bargaining no argument. The two guards who had followed the blue-eyed man into the Hall looked at Rickon uncertainly but when he nodded shortly they grabbed the man by his arms and shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry this took so long to get up, college has been seriously bogging me down but hopefully I'll be able to post some more in the next few days since I'm on Turkey break! Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers! Thanks for being patient with me, you guys are the absolute best!

The mist that hung over Winterfell had yet to clear when Arya stepped out of the castle into the brisk morning air; her direwolf padded quietly by her side like a shadow. She had once again grown accustomed to the constant companionship of the animal and subconsciously dug her fingers into the coarse fur of Nymeria’s scruff as she thought about the long years she spent without her solid presence. Nymeria leaned into the touch almost knocking Arya off balance, the princess was a grown woman now but she was still rather small and what her mistress lacked in height Nymeria made up for in sheer size. The direwolf came up to Arya’s hip, a good three feet tall at the shoulder, almost as big as her brothers; yet the males were both larger then her.

As they walked Nymeria’s red-tinted pelt shown golden in the early morning light as she moved like a ghost through the fog, her human by her side. She paused every few steps to sniff the air cautiously, tail high, as if she had scented an enemy; it put her human on edge. Arya’s fingers tightened around the thick skin under Nymeria’s fur when the direwolf let out a soft growl. Arya stopped, tension written plainly in the line of her shoulders. “Show yourself,” she demanded with a growl not unlike her beast’s.

Tap emerged from the shadows of the castle to take a place on the side of Arya that was not occupied by the gargantuan wolf. Arya grinned at the sight of him, blue eyes dancing, Nymeria wagging her tail accordingly with her human’s mood. “Good doggy,” Tap said smiling at the direwolf. “How is my favorite princess this morning?” Tap inquired, throwing a casual arm around Arya’s shoulder, who wrinkled her nose at the form of address but did not respond, ignoring him but for the tight smile that curled one side of her mouth up. “Off to the field for practice? Great, I haven’t swung a sword in ages,” Tap whined with conviction.

Arya’s eyes slid sideways to him, her first real acknowledgement of his presence. “What are you doing here Tap?” Arya’s voice was full of suspicion; it was not like the pirate to go wondering about the castle grounds. Him and the rest of Arya’s motley crew preferred staying at the inn in town, causing ample amounts of benign difficulties.

Tap’s constant brilliant smile faltered momentarily. “Can’t I get up at the crack of dawn for a bit of light combat with the royalty?”

Arya blinked at him, “no.” Tap hummed in confirmation but did not comment further. “My brother put you up to this,” she hypothesized in Tap’s continued silence.

“The king had nothing to do with it,” Tap smiled wickedly to himself, as if enjoying a private joke.

“No, but I’m sure the prince did.”

Tap scowled good naturedly and narrowed his eyes but said nothing. That was all the evidence Arya needed, she sighed heavily and resigned herself to being followed. She knew a guard would be set up for her eventually (she could not successfully wander around the castle by herself for all time, it was bound to happen sooner or later, sooner if her brothers had anything to do with it) and if such a guard was going to consist of the pirates who had traveled with her she really couldn’t complain. Damn Bran, even after being apart for over a decade he could still read her with one look from those inquisitive eyes.

Tap smiled triumphantly, reading her inner thoughts clearly on her face, the princess was not one for hiding her emotions well, even for being a Faceless Man. When she reached the courtyard she was surprised to see it was already occupied. Shaggydog bounded over to them, tongue lolling from his mouth, when he reached them he pressed his nose to his sister’s in greeting. Rickon looked up when he noticed his direwolf missing from his side and hailed them with a wave of his hand, his other firmly grasped in his son’s. The two year old smiled a gapped-tooth grin around the thumb in his mouth at the sight of his newly acquired aunt and her companions. Rickon’s eyes flicked from Tap’s arm around Arya’s shoulder to Arya’s fist still clenched in Nymeria’s fur. Tap dropped his arm at the same time Arya removed her hand from the direwolf’s warm body. Damn her brothers and their perceptiveness and meddling. The young black haired boy tugged his hand out of his father’s grip and waddled over to his aunt. Arya shifted from one foot the other before kneeling down in front of the young prince. Robb placed his hand on Shaggydog’s side to steady himself as he made his way towards Arya. When he was within reach, Arya reached out her hand for him. He smiled brilliantly at her, those Stark grey eyes twinkling at her. She couldn’t help but smile back despite her uncomfortableness of the close proximity of the young child.

Young Robb took her hand with his own chubby one and waddled the rest of the way over to her, leaning against her hand for support, unsteady on his short legs. When he was close enough he threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her neck and clinging tightly. “Up, up!” He commanded and Arya stiffened. She could feel Tap watching her with a smirk on his face. She glared at him overtop of her nephew’s curly hair. He smelled clean and fresh, a scent she had always associated with Rickon himself, since he was only a young child when she’d left.

She stood slowly, cradling Robb to her, one hand under his rump and the other across his shoulders. He squealed happily and tugged on the end of her braid, sticking it in her mouth. She gently tugged it out of his grip and threw it over her shoulder where he couldn’t reach it. She noticed Rickon standing a few steps off, frowning slightly at her. She raised her eyebrows at him in question but didn’t comment. Rickon’s Tully blue eyes flickered quickly to Tap and then back to her again before he spoke. “You’ve changed,” he stated quietly.

“So have you,” she smiled, swallowing down the nervous emotion that threatened to clog her throat. He briefly smiled at her.

“You never had that kind of patience for me when I was small. You were always running around after Jon or terrorizing Sansa.”

She considered him for a moment, the man standing in front of her now. He was taller than her and broad, built so much like Robb, though his hair was a lighter shade, almost blonde but still with that resilient red tinge, the faint trace of a beard on his high cheekbones and strong jaw. He was dressed in furs and breeches, the direwolf of Stark sewed proudly on his vest. “I like Robb here much better than you,” it felt strange to say her brother’s name when referring to another, but she liked it. “He’s quieter. If I recall correctly you were always yowling loudly.” She let a smile play on her lips to let him know no harm was meant.

“Horseface,” he responded with an equally indulgent smile. Tap raised an eyebrow as the siblings stared at each other conspiratorially. Robb rested his head on his aunt’s shoulder, and she unconsciously nuzzled her nose in his hair, feeling a strange burning in her heart that she very rarely had ever felt before and certainly not in a long while: protectiveness. Rickon looked down at his son, coming closer so that he could card his fingers through the soft hair on top of Robb’s head. He had begun to fall asleep. Rickon held out his arms wordlessly and Arya narrowed her eyes at him before reluctantly giving up Robb to his father. Rickon smiled and ruffled his older sister’s fondly. She slapped his hand away and he left, sauntering across the yard with his son’s head peeking out over his shoulder, those piercing Stark eyes staring at Arya.

Tap, who had been standing silently by for the whole scene, spoke up: “so what’s the plan for this morning?”

Arya turned, eyeing the pirate she gave him a predatory grin, “you said you wanted to practice?” She drew Needle cleanly from it’s sheath by her side, and angled her foot backwards so that she was standing side-faced, resting her weight on the leg behind her, moving her hips into a defensive position. She pointed Needle at Tap’s chest.

“I don’t think it’s the best idea to use unblunted swords,” he said warily but drew his own sword all the same.

She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, “scared?”

He took the opportunity to lung at her full force, his sword coming down in an overhead swing, she sidestepped swiftly, caught only momentarily off guard. She repositioned herself again, twisting to bring her sword down on his back, as she danced around him. He dodged at the last moment to deflect in a flourish, his grin widened. She swayed, waiting for him to attack again. When he did it was with a rapid flurry of blows, mindless and impractical. She darted out of the way easily, hopping from one foot to the other, all the while keeping side-face.

Tap’s smile faltered slightly, “damn.”

She smirked. Tap backed off somewhat and they exchanged a few more playful blows until Arya managed to spin around behind him bringing Needle up to his neck, his back flush to her chest. “I win,” she breathed quietly in his ear before releasing him. They were both panting slightly, their breaths coming out in short bursts of fog in the chilly air. Arya’s cheeks and nose were red from the cold, her hair coming out of her braid in chunks, in her breeches and boots with Needle in her hand she looked every part the warrior princess. Sheathing Needle she freed her hands in order to swiftly re-braid her hair. As she sat down to catch her breath an unexpected party showed up in the courtyard.

Sansa’s red hair shown brilliantly in the sun which had now fully staked its claim in the sky. She was flanked by a figure who made Arya un-sheath her sword and go storming towards the gigantic man, Nymeria on her heels, ears flat on her head. “You,” she accused as she pointed Needle at his neck. He made no move to defend himself, merely raised his eyebrow on the side of his face which was not ashen and marred.

“Put your blade down Arya,” Sansa’s confident voice made Arya hesitate, but she didn’t move.

“I thought you died,” she snarled instead, poking Needle into the soft flesh near his Adam’s apple.

“Same could be said for you, wolf pup.” The Hound growled.

“Quiet, both of you. Arya, put away your sword, he’s not going to do anything to you.” Sansa met Arya’s gaze with her own frosty one, Arya scowled back at her but sheathed Needle, Nymeria’s ears stayed against her skull, tail in the air and coat bristled threateningly.

“What is he doing here?” Arya demanded, trying to keep the childish whine from her voice. Her sister was not impressed.

“He is part of my guard, and a friend.”

“A friend?” Arya looked incredulously between Sansa and the Hound. “Sansa, he’s a Lannister dog.” The Hound flinched but said nothing in defense of himself.

“The Hound protected me more than anyone else during my time in the Red Keep,” Sansa’s voice was distant. “I owe him my life.”

“He wanted to ransom me!”

“To your mother and brother you ungrateful bitch,” the Hound snarled. They narrowed their eyes at each other. Sansa’s hand reached out to touch the Hound on the arm. He looked at her before breathing through his nose and retreating a step. Arya’s gaze flickered between them, her brother’s weren’t the only perceptive ones, and she’d be damned if she didn’t know what that look meant. Wasn’t Sansa married?

“I would like to extend an invitation to break your fast with me, if you would?” Sansa said, smiling serenely as if nothing had just occurred between her guard and Arya.

Arya chewed her lip thoughtfully, Sansa was not exactly the first person she wanted to spend all morning with, but she was looking even less towards court that was being held later in the morning and decided a distraction would not be unwelcome. “I guess I am pretty hungry,” she conceded.

“This way,” Sansa turned, her skirts swirling on the ground as she strode towards the inner walls of the castle. Arya looked back over her shoulder at Tap who raised his shoulders in a shrug before stepping in line beside the Hound to follow her into the castle. When the reached Sansa’s quarters Arya collapsed in her chair, admittedly more hungry than she had let on, Nymeria laid down next to her chair and put her head contentedly on her paws. Sansa sat more gracefully across the table from her. The Hound and Tap positioned themselves on either side of the door, the Hound stock still and back straight whilst Tap leaned against the frame, putting one foot up against the wall and picking at his fingernails with a dagger, winking at Arya when she looked up and smiled at him. Sansa watched the interaction before taking a dainty bite of mutton. Arya followed suit and began eating with vigor. It wasn’t until they were both finished, Arya nursing a bit of Dornish wine and Sansa sipping lightly on some water that they actually spoke.

“Why did you put out the search?” Sansa asked casually, putting her water down and staring at her sister, who shifted unconsciously from the gaze.

“I wanted to find him,” she answered, her teeth trapping her bottom lip and worrying it back and forth.

“Why?”

“He helped me when I needed it, and I never said thank you.”

“You were never one for thank you’s Arya,” Sansa pointed out.

Arya scowled, “he deserves one.”

Sansa assessed her sister for a minute more, “yes, I do believe he does.”

Arya looked up, startled by that statement. “What?”

Sansa just smiled. “It looks about time. Rickon and Bran are probably already waiting for us in the Hall.”

Arya heaved herself up out of the chair with a groan, Sansa treated her with an indulgent smile which Arya rolled her eyes at but gave a small one in return. In the Throne room the four large chairs sat in a row upon the dais. Rickon and Bran sat side by side as Sansa and Arya came in, Sansa sitting to Rickon’s left and Arya to Bran’s right. Nymeria sat next to the chair so that Arya could put her hand on her head, the gesture relaxing both of them. Shaggydog lurked in the shadows in-between Sansa and Rickon’s chairs, while Summer laid out lazily next to Bran’s legs.

The court was full to the brim with commoners and representatives of other houses of the North. When everything was settled a man stepped forward. His hair was blonde and he had beady, mistrustful eyes. He nodded his head in acknowledgement at Rickon but then turned his attention to Arya. “Princess,” he said with reverence and she stiffened. “I know you probably don’t remember me since you were young when we parted but I’ve dreamed of you every night. It has been too long, I was so glad that you returned home and I came as soon as I heard. Let me have the pleasure of reintroducing myself, I am Gendry, the Smith.”

Arya snorted a laugh, causing all her siblings to turn towards her.

“Is something funny m’lady?”

As soon as the words left him Arya’s mouth hardened. “You are not him.”

“I know it’s been a while, Princess—“ the imposter stuttered under the ferocity of her gaze.

“You are not him,” she repeated forcefully.

“M’lady,” he pleaded.

“Leave,” she bit out forcefully.

“The Princess will consider your words,” Rickon said, his voice rich and full, demanding the attention of the blonde man and everyone else in the room.

“Get out,” Arya demanded, louder. The man hastily stumbled from the room. The next four attempts after the initial one were just as bad, if not worse. They were too short or too thin or blonde or had brown eyes or talked funny, she sent them all on their way. As evening drew nearer she was becoming distinctly panicked. She had given the orders for men to search or come forward with any news of Gendry Waters two moons ago, almost as soon as she had arrived. It had been long enough for the word to reach the capital at the very least and gave ample amount of time for anyone from the far reaches of the South to make their way North. She wondered if she might’ve been mistaken. Maybe one of the men she had sent away had been him and her memory was just not accurate. She had sent them all away with such finality; she doubted if one of them had been him they would try for a second attempt. Would she even recognize her friend if she saw him? Would she know her smith? With his black hair and blue, blue eyes? Would she? She bit her lip in consideration, lost in thought, until the doors to the courtroom opened, making many people jump and causing Rickon to straighten on his throne, where he had taken to leaning one side, legs crossed and looking distinctly bored.

A man walked in flanked by two guards who were protesting his intrusion. One of the guards grabbed for his arm but he yanked it way and continued barreling forwards. When he reached the bottom of the dais, he looked up at Rickon from under a fringe of black hair. “Your Grace,” he mumbled through gritted teeth, as if it pained him to address someone of high rank. Rickon acknowledged him with a sharp nod of his head. He turned then, almost instinctively his eyes connected with Arya’s and she felt her heart drop into her stomach: deep blue eyes, deeper than the sea she crossed to escape them.

“Arya,” he breathed, it was no more than a whisper, but the sound of it echoed inside her head. Nymeria stood and Arya’s hand dropped from her head. The giant direwolf walked down the dais almost hesitantly, tail up and ears flicked forwards. The entire court watched in eager anticipation, torn between horror and curiosity. Nymeria circled him, once, twice but the man never took his eyes from Arya’s, pinning her to her seat no matter how she tried to squirm out from under them. His lips were set in a hard line and he looked tired and angry but mostly relieved, the only move he made was to half way lift his hands, as if reaching out for her. She flicked her eyes downwards to this movement and saw him stop abruptly as if he hadn’t realized what he’d been doing before. He clenched his fists and she could see the ripples of muscle moving up his forearm and into his bicep as he struggled to regain composure.

It was enough to break her temporary numbness. She stood and made her way towards him, following the same path her direwolf had taken, Nymeria still circling him. He watched her slow approach with a curiously blank expression. Arya’s heart was jumping around in her throat. When she was near enough to reach out and touch him, she stopped. She saw a muscle in his jaw flex and relax, “Arya,” he said again, quietly, almost pleadingly.

Arya turned towards Rickon who was watching the scene before him with guarded curiosity, when he noticed his sister’s gaze on him he turned towards her. “Brother, arrest this man for crimes against the crown.” She had never used a commanding voice, but it rang throughout the halls, bargaining no argument. The two guards who had followed the blue-eyed man into the Hall looked at Rickon uncertainly but when he nodded shortly they grabbed the man by his arms and shoulders.

“What?” his eyes darting, confused, between Arya and Rickon. “Dammit, Arya, it’s Gendry. You know me. You fucking know me. I’m fucking sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to leave you. I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” he struggled against the guards. “I fucking looked for you! I spent ten damn years searching for you and you’re just going to lock me up?” He managed to elbow one of the guards in the face and wiggle his way free from the other. He stepped forward and grabbed Arya’s face in his hands. “It’s me, you know it is. It’s me,” he said almost desperately pressing his forehead to hers. She didn’t move, stood there stunned as his coarse hands burned into her skin as if she was on fire. Nymeria whined. A growl ripped through the sudden silence that had engulfed the court.

“Ser, remove your hands from the Princess. You are to be taken to the cells until we decide what to do with you.” Rickon was standing now, Shaggydog at his feet. “That was no way to speak to a lady of the court,” he added as a kingly after-thought.

Gendry released Arya’s face, and the burning chilled so suddenly that Arya reached up to touch her cheek. Gendry glared at her balling his hands into fists. “She’s no lady.” He stepped back and the guard who was not profusely bleeding from his nose grabbed one of his arms. He made no struggle this time but simply looked up at Arya with those blue, blue eyes before he was dragged forcefully from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got some angsty angsty Gendry and Arya in this chapter! Whatever shall happen next?!


End file.
